


Because you see my dear, revolution is the latest fashion

by PeachyKeen



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Fashion Boutique, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Enjolras (reluctantly) models, Fluff, Grantaire takes pictures, Hipsters, Humor, Jehan opens a consignment store, LBP3 references because why not, Like seriously this is pretty fluffy, Multi, Pink shoelaces, Rambling plot that might one day get somewhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachyKeen/pseuds/PeachyKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire, chasing a childhood dream, opens a clothes boutique in a corner of Paris. Sooner or later, of course, everyone begins to gravitate towards it, and transformations, not only of the style kind, begin to take place. This tale follows Friperie Rouge from its opening, and features Combeferre the nervous investor, Enjolras the activist-turned-indignant model, Grantaire the newly-inspired photographer, Cosette the bohemian shop clerk, and a whole cast of other fashionable (or less so, but that can be remedied easily enough) young students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had decided the best course of action before posting this, my very first work on AO3, was to go online and prepare myself, reading “do’s and don’ts” of fanfiction, character analyses, the comments on acclaimed works here, the works. Afterwards, when I had finished crying, I gathered my courage and published this, because despite my nerves, the glorious Jehan in charge of a fashion boutique just wouldn't get out of my head. But then it occurred to me that Enjolras would never allow one of his friends to feed the embodiment of consumerism and vanity that is haute couture (it's the man's opinion, not mine), so the boutique became a consignment store, a "friperie".
> 
> Quick background info for those in need of it: a consignment store is a kind of used-clothes boutique where people can bring in used items in good condition to sell. When something is sold, half the money goes to the original owner and the other half to the shop owner (or at least, that's the system used at the places I frequent!). If you have the chance to visit one, you should: the stores have almost as much character as the clothes they sell!
> 
> Song lyrics are not mine. They're from "Pink Shoelaces", originally by Dodie Stevens and covered by the Chordettes.

“ _Ah non_ , no way, Jehan –”  


“It’s classic!” protested Jean Prouvaire over the jazz coming from the sound system they had just installed.  


“You want this place to be classy, okay, can’t you put on something more… I mean, less…”  


“Less happy? You want us to be another stuck-up consignment place, is that it? With no soul? Hmm?”  


“No, but this…” Combeferre gestured helplessly at the speakers.

_Now I’ve got a guy and his name is Dooley  
He’s my guy and I love him truly_

“No,” repeated Combeferre, picking at the sleeve of his button-down. “What is this anyway?” Jehan smiled at him sweetly and turned the volume up. Combeferre groaned. 

_He’s not good-lookin’ heaven knows  
But I’m wild about his crazy clothes_

“Come on! Maybe you could try to not freak out the average customer as soon as they come in with eccentric 50s pop? I mean, there’s the bowtie section for that.”

_He wears tan shoes with pink shoelaces  
A polka dot vest and man, oh, man_

“But it’s _perfect_ for us, just listen!”

_Tan shoes with pink shoelaces  
And a big Panama with a purple hat band._

When Combeferre kept glaring at him, he huffed in irritation and turned down the music. “We talked about this and what did you say? You said “Jehan, you are an artistic genius with the most magnificent sense of style I’ve ever seen, and because of that, when we open our place you can totally pick the music while I take care of all the money and number stuff”.”  


“Your place,” repeated Combeferre, for what he suspected was not going to be the last time. “Not ours. I said I’d help you out with the business side of things. Because God forbid your beautiful hands touch the buttons of a cash register.”  


“Our fullproof business partnership, that’s what makes us work!” A pause. “And it’s not eccentric. It sold a million copies. In fact I’m nominating it for _Rouge’s_ theme song and you’re lucky I’m not making the urgent artistic decision to change our name to _Pink Shoelaces_.”  


“That would probably end up being copyright infringement of some kind,” said Combeferre, letting the smile return to his face. Jehan smiled back. The music stayed.

The great opening of _Friperie Rouge_ was in a bit more than an hour, and Combeferre was whirling from wall to wall and rack to rack, straightening dresses on hangers and _finding jewellery everywhere_ , why were there so many lonely earrings lurking around? Normally he wouldn’t have made such a scene about the music, but everything had to be perfect. For Jehan’s sake. The student in French Literature had absolutely no business skills. And he had invested a lot of money he really didn’t have in the tiny nook tucked away in a corner of Paris. 

Yes, Combeferre the thoughtful and introspective and _reasonable friend_ , Combeferre the med student and philosopher in his spare time, had made exactly one non-thought-out decision and it was this. Through a whirlwind of events he still didn’t completely remember, a girl he might have loved had left him for not being “spontaneous” enough (what the hell did that mean, anyway) and meanwhile, Jehan had been sighing about the perfectly beautiful clothes in his closet he had never worn. Enjolras put in his figurative mountain of salt about child labour in Bangladesh and Sri Lanka and textile production destroying the rainforest. Then there might have been alcohol involved, and Jehan declared he was going to open a fashion emporium to rival the evils of H&M and Zara, and Bahorel of course knew a guy who had a brother whose boss knew someone who had a little property to rent out… 

So, seeing everything beginning to move, in a sort of slow motion implosion, out of control, he had volunteered to help him with his opening, for free, and Jehan had cheerfully accepted. Never mind that Combeferre knew next to nothing about fashion. So there was Jehan, fulfilling a lifelong dream and Combeferre…well, he was just around for the ride, wasn’t he? 

True, the landlord, Monsieur Fauchelevant, had been a saint. The rent they were paying him was far below what it should probably have been, and Combeferre didn’t actually remember him or Jehan even seeing a contract, never mind that in any other situation Jehan probably wouldn’t have been allowed to open a business anywhere with no previous experience. Every time they tried to discuss the details with Monsieur Fauchelevant – he asked them to call him Monsieur Jean, but Combeferre could never bring himself to – he would just smile magnanimously and call them “ _mes grands_ ” a lot. This, of course, was when he wasn’t talking about his daughter, Colette or Josette, something like that. 

But what was Jehan _thinking_? Opening a consignment store in Paris, the fashion capital of the world? Combeferre had walked through the Champs-Elysées multiple times, and _Rouge_ , with its piles of garments, everything from leather pants to beaded summer dresses and woolen scarves to furry vests, were a far cry from the thousand-euro frocks lit up in windows, or the H&Ms on every corner. Jehan didn’t share his misgivings, but then again, Jehan was the one bustling about in a Moulin Rouge t-shirt and paisley skinny jeans. Purple paisley print skinny jeans. Jehan just did not give a crap what anyone thought, in his sense of style at least. Combeferre envied him sometimes. 

An hour until the opening. Pedestrians hurrying by on their business would glance into the windows as they passed – some looked interested, but more looked disgruntled. They were waiting on Bahorel, who, alone out of the others, had volunteered to help. Combeferre’s friends had grudgingly agreed to come pay them a visit during the day. He remembered as he was tidying up a display, straightening the red blazer on the mannequin – it reminded him of Enjolras for some reason. This was ridiculous and made no sense, because, for the length of their friendship, since they were teenagers, he had never known Enjolras to wear anything but dark colours and jeans. His best friend sniffed at designer labels and non-organic fibres as well, but that at least made some sense. The conservative clothing on the decidedly non-conservative man did not, and had always baffled Combeferre. Meanwhile, Jehan appeared at his elbow to drape some gold statement necklace that had seen better days over the coat. Combeferre couldn’t help but grin, because of the audacity of the outfit, everything Enjolras and him were, and weren't. This was the absolute last place he would have expected to find himself. 

Someone knocked on the window.  


“Can you let him in?” called Jehan. “I’m busy back here, your display is all wrong for the season, ‘Ferre, you never listen to me.” Combeferre’s retort was covered by the sound of impatient drumming on the window. He headed through the space up to the front door, unlocked it, and let Bahorel in. His faux-hawk, styled higher than ever, seemed to have a presence of its own, while his beard was just a touch scruffier. He was an unlikely contrast of combat boots (made for stomping) and an armful of silk scarves.  


“Please tell me you didn’t rob a bourgeois clothes boutique,” Combeferre said. Was it too much to hope, that Jehan’s business wasn’t going to be built on lies and petty theft?  


“Nah,” said Bahorel, throwing the scarves into Combeferre’s arms and his jacket into a corner. “And I’m insulted you’d think that. No, this blonde girl kind of ran down to me from upstairs and insisted I take them.” Clearly seeing the look on Combeferre’s face, he added, “Don’t worry, we talked. I apparently know a guy whose brother’s boss knows her dad, we’re practically family. Cojette, that’s her name. She said she wanted to help, so…”  


“But these cost a fortune. I see them in shop windows downtown, they’re…She barely knows us. You should really go find her and give them back to her.”  


“Do it yourself!” protested Bahorel. “I wouldn’t. And she wouldn’t have given them if she didn’t want to. You gotta make a profit you know, have a goal apart from clothing the hopelessly unfashionable.”  


“Which is a noble cause,” came the affronted reply from Jehan. Combeferre almost rolled his eyes. It was lucky he was around to rein in his friend, or he’d be handing out silk scarves to every straggler in a ratty sweatshirt that walked by. 

Bahorel grinned at the look on Combeferre’s face. “So you’re having fun in Jehan’s childhood magic fantasy closet become reality.”  


“So much fun. I’m pretty overcome at the moment.” Combeferre’s voice dropped to a stage whisper. “It seems my display is all wrong for the season.”  


“Dusty rose, Bahorel, dusty rose!” came the response from Jehan.  


“Ah no, bro, not dusty rose,” said Bahorel, completely serious. “Pink’s out right now, until this winter. No pink.”  


“I’m guessing that doesn’t include pink shoelaces.” He was being ironic, but nonetheless, Jehan’s bright laugh came from the back of the shop. “You’re learning!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I've spent a few days in Paris but I haven't lived there, and so the city will remain a faint backdrop to the story but little more, sadly. Also, when it comes to my knowledge of fashion, I'm somewhere between Jehan and Combeferre...but I love The Devil Wears Prada, so that's got to count for something, right? Right. Last thing: I do speak fluent French. Just to put it out there, if anyone has questions related to French in their fic, I'd be happy to help!
> 
> So yeah, this is pretty much cracky, fluffy escapism at the moment! However, it won't stay that way for long (hopefully). Definitely going to flesh out my characters and story as I continue writing. Should be interesting once the rest of the boys and girls start to trickle in! The tags section for relationships is empty for now, because I'm not quite sure how everyone will pair up in the end - though you can definitely expect some e/R.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac arrives late at Friperie Rouge and, thanks to a footwear crisis, meets all kinds of interesting, attractive people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for keeping anyone who was waiting. This was my first week of non-holiday life and it was pretty rough. Enjoy!

Courfeyrac was twenty minutes late, but in his defense, he had brought coffee. He couldn’t win: while the chill of the autumn morning seeped into his bones, the bare cardboard cups were hot enough to scald his fingers through his gloves. Combeferre had invited him to come by and check out this new clothes place that had its grand opening today. Or rather, he hadn’t exactly come out and invited Courfeyrac, but it was all his normally contemplative best friend had talked about for weeks and months, and Courfeyrac cared enough about him to answer what was clearly a silent plea for moral support.

Also, his phone was turned off. He hadn’t wanted to face Enjolras’s wrath at the second member of the trio bailing on him to go “flounce around in a den of consumerist hipsters mooning over the fruits of sweatshop labour”. This was what Combeferre had been treated to when he had called to inform Enjolras he wouldn’t be able to make it to the meeting they had planned for that morning. For his part, Courfeyrac still thought that it couldn’t properly call Les Amis de l’ABC an organisation, seeing as they were a total of three members, or say that they held meetings when all they did was argue for an hour and a half, but Enjolras was dedicated. And stubborn to a fault. But it was less painful to focus on what felt like his palms blistering from the hot coffee than on the equally blistering words that would be directed at him when he saw Enjolras again, so he chose to dwell on the coffee instead.

And then he turned a corner and he dropped one of the cups. This had to be the place, there was no way this couldn’t be the place, there were dress figures in the window modelling the most eclectic outfits he had ever seen in his life, and _he_ was Courfeyrac of the legendary gold shorts. Besides that, there was a hanging sign over the sidewalk spelling out _Friperie Rouge_ in red letters, and the Parisians streamed in though the doorway, for the most part looking as shocked as he was. The chalkboard outside read _“Pourquoi pas une petite révolution toute à vous?”_ in curling letters with a happy face and an arrow pointing towards the shop. That had Combeferre written all over it.

A dainty cough from somewhere behind him pulled him from where he had frozen, staring, on the sidewalk. He was suddenly aware of the people who were pushing by him, giving him irritated looks, and hurried to get out of their way while simultaneously turning to see who had spoken. 

“I was just wondering,” said the angel in lace, “whether you noticed you dropped your coffee?” Courfeyrac glanced down, where the cup had upended its contents onto the pristine sidewalk, glanced back up.

“I didn’t,” he said truthfully. He really looked at her this time. If anyone had asked him about a crochet lace blouse, a high-low, pastel pink taffeta skirt, a set of pearls, and ankle booties on one person, he would have laughed in their face and told them it couldn’t be done. Especially because pink wasn’t in season. But this girl pulled it off, pink and all. She more than pulled it off. She looked like a freaking lovechild of the Bohemian and French Revolutions or something, and he didn’t even know or care whether that was possible or not. It was time to bring out the patented Charming Smile, by Courfeyrac. “Was distracted by this place. Can you even believe it? It’s a madhouse.”

The angel’s answering smile was demure in pink gloss. “I can believe it. They’ve been working so hard, haven’t they? They deserve it. The owners, I mean.” Courfeyrac’s stomach clenched as he remembered how uncharacteristically panicky Combeferre had been, these last few months, how little time they had spent together. Oh, Courfeyrac was a horrible person indeed, and an uncaring friend besides, wrapped up in his own little problems. He'd have to make it up to Combeferre and his friend somehow. 

In the meantime, there was a very attractive girl in front of him. But just as he was about to open his mouth to deliver a killer pick-up line, she spoke again. “Um, and, by the way, there’s coffee on your shoe.”

“Wha – ?” Damn, Courf, be smooth.

“Some of the coffee splashed on your boots and I don’t know if stains come out of suede easily, you might want to do something about that.”

“Oh my God,” said Courfeyrac, finally realizing. “Oh my God, shoot, these are vintage! Right, okay, I know the guys who work in there, they can probably help, I’ll just…” Before he realized what he was doing, he was slipping off his boots in the middle of the sidewalk and gathering them in one arm. His darlings had Combeferre’s coffee spilled on them – they looked like they were bleeding. Then he wasn’t running, he wasn’t, he was just walking at a pace slightly faster than leisurely, in socks, still carrying the other coffee, towards the entrance.

“Coming with you,” he heard the girl from behind him say as he burst through the door. Immediately he spotted Combeferre, standing in a corner looking uncomfortable.

“’Ferre!”

“Courf, hi, wait, what –? Why are you in socks?” 

“I got coffee on my boots, please tell me you can save them or I’ll be forced to stop drinking coffee because the memories will be too painful and God knows what that’ll do to me –” 

“Okay,” said Combeferre, slow and steady, taking Courfeyrac's coffee. To his credit, he only spared a quick glance at the girl who had come in as well, then clearly stamped down his curiosity in order to focus entirely on the crisis at hand. “I don’t think I’m actually equipped to deal with this. I’ll get Jehan, he’ll know what to do better than me.” With that, he turned on his heels and strode away. Courfeyrac gazed at the stained boots in his arms, praying he was going to be able to keep them. They were so young, far too young to say goodbye to him just yet.

“Jehan’s a darling,” said the girl, “they’ll be good as new, I’m sure. They’re very nice, by the way.”

“Vegan suede,” said Courfeyrac morosely. “Took me ages to find them in this colour. Thank you for coming with me.”

“I’m Cosette,” she replied. So the angel had a name. “My dad’s the landlord. Nice to meet you.”

“Courfeyrac. I love your skirt, it looks beautiful on you.” Which was a bit off from what he really wanted to say. This went something along the lines of _You’re beautiful and by the way, I’m in fact not actually gay, in fact I do fall for girls, especially ones in pink taffeta, want to get coffee and then go scarf shopping?_ but he judged that way too forward for this bewitching creature. She’d probably blush and run away from him and get her dad.

The next moment, there was an auburn head bent over the boots he still cradled in his arms, making little cooing noises. Combeferre was back, with his friend, it looked like.

“Oh no no no,” said the boy. Courfeyrac liked his voice. It was what steam wafting from a mug of hot chocolate would be if it was a sound, and chocolate was comfort any way you looked at it, everyone knew that. “This is terrible, the poor dears, what happened to them?” The boy looked up – not chocolate brown eyes after all, but very, very blue. “’Ferre told me everything and this is more horrendous than I thought, but I’ve seen worse. I can help you with them, if you like?”

“A regular miracle worker, our Jehan,” said Combeferre. “Oh, right, you two haven’t met yet, right? Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire.”

“Jehan,” the owner of said name interjected, reaching out for the boots. “Reads better in a line. May I? They’ll be in good hands, I promise you.”

“Courf,” said Courfeyrac, realizing he hadn’t said anything yet and remedying it with a quick movement to hand over his footwear, “and yes, please.” Jehan gathered them in his arms with delicate fingers, like they were injured birds, and had bustled off before Courfeyrac had time to say anything else. Almost dazed, he watched the purple paisley jeans vanish into a side room.

“I’m surprised Enjolras was okay with you skipping the meeting to come here.” commented Combeferre. “He was pretty pissed when I told him.” Courfeyrac’s stomach lurched, remembering the withholding of information from a certain particularly passionate (oversensitive) revolutionary that had led him here.

“Um, yeah. About that –”

“Great, Courf, that’s just fantastic.”

“Shut up, shouldn’t you be glad and amazed I even came?”

“Hold on. I’m so sorry, hello, have we met?” Combeferre was looking over Courfeyrac’s shoulder… at the girl who was presumably still standing behind him. Oops.

“I don’t think so,” she said, brushing off the fact that she had been standing there ignored for a while. “I’m Cosette. Cosette Fauchelevant.” 

Combeferre’s eyes widened at the name. “You know Monsieur Fauchelevant?”

“Yes, that’s my Papa. I brought down some old things of mine earlier… I gave them to a guy with spiky hair who said he was a mutual acquaintance…? Barry? Barrel?”

“Bahorel, yeah. And we’ll have to give you the scarves back, they’re too generous, really.” Courfeyrac was clearly missing information here. He was looking back and forth between the two. “So you’re our landlord’s daughter. I’m so sorry, you probably don’t have a very good opinion of us so far.”

“Not at all,” said Cosette, benevolently, “you all seem like lovely people. Is it just the three of you working here?”

“Just the one, actually,” said Combeferre. “It’s Jehan’s place, I’m just helping out. I don’t know much about” – he gestured helplessly – “about all this.”

“Clearly,” Courfeyrac almost said. Combeferre’s closet was jeans, T-shirts with history jokes on them, and very little else – Enjolras’s tailored, bland outfits were better, but not by much. Courfeyrac was going to have to intervene at some point with those two, for their own good.

Meanwhile, though, he was itching to go shopping. All he had left was his food budget for the week, but this was a consignment store and everything was cheap, right? The caramel-colored leather jacket hanging innocently on a door handle over there was practically screaming at him to take it home with him and coddle it and love it like a child. Just as he was plotting escape from the conversation, though, he heard Combeferre say, “… and Courfeyrac knows way more than me, he should actually be the one working, not me. In fact, Courf, you really don’t have anywhere else to be, do you? You could go see if anyone needs your expertise.”

In the next few hours Courfeyrac would be nearly smothered by shirts, would assist in stopping an unconventional shoplifter, would maybe very possibly fall in love, and would be yelled at for the shockingly unhygienic conditions of the dressing rooms, not in that order. But that would come later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the chalkboard text: "Why not a little revolution all to yourself?"  
> Wow. I'm thinking of starting a Pinterest board or something for this fic, for all the clothes and hairstyles the characters wear, haha. It's not all gratuitous! Their outfits do say something about their characters. In that sense, it might seem surprising that Enjolras's sense of style isn't as flamboyant as you'd expect, but he has his reasons. Lastly, the actual storyline is progressing insanely slowly for now, but I'm trying to introduce every character in a way that isn't rushed, so I hope that's working for you all. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac, roped into spending the day at Rouge, meets an rather eclectic pair of customers. 
> 
> Or, the author fails spectacularly at getting all the characters introduced in under 5k words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry for not having a new chapter posted sooner. Please accept my feeble excuse of exams happening and life choosing to throw everything at me at once. But I had so much fun writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Potential trigger warning for a very brief reference to trichotillomania (hair-pulling disorder).

Courfeyrac had the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows and a bead of sweat about to roll down from his hairline. Combeferre had made him into a walking advertisement for the store, in vintage chambray, vintage wine-coloured cardigan, and leather hi-top Converse that would never compare to his beloved boots – which were still somewhere in the back of the shop – but would suffice for now. He was so vintage he was surprised he wasn’t been mobbed by hipsters, or the museums of Paris. Meanwhile, though, twice his phone had gone off in a flurry of “Rent”, signaling a call from Enjolras, and twice he had ignored it without a second thought. He was having so much fun here, even if he was, just right now, at the point of collapsing under the armfuls of discarded clothes he was hauling from the change rooms back to the racks. He had just knelt over to pick up a summer dress that had slithered to the floor when – 

“Excuse me, do you work here?” Courfeyrac fought the urge to roll his eyes and looked over, with some difficulty. The male in question was freckly, short and so lanky Courfeyrac suddenly felt like he should sympathy-eat Nutella for him, or something. 

“Technically no, but I can help you if you need it.”

“In that case,” said the guy, a frown crumpling his delicate features, “are you aware of the appalling conditions inside the dressing rooms of this establishment?”

“What –”

“Forgive the intrusion, but when were the doorknobs last sanitized? It’s cold season, did you know that? I don’t want to catch anything, thank you very much. It’s a good thing I carry antibacterial wipes on my person at all times. The mirror was smudged, it looked to me like someone coughed on it – ”

“How can you possibly –”

“– and I am shocked, quite frankly shocked, by the laxness of your hygiene policies. No hand sanitizer dispensers anywhere. However, your morals are better than other places I could frequent and your selection of bowties is simply astounding, so consider me a regular from now on.” Courfeyrac just looked at him. He was still half-crouched on the ground, looking up at the frowning customer. As per usual, his clothes said just as much about him: the jeans the guy was in were obstinately starched despite their worn-in look. Starched. Who starched their jeans anymore? 

And that was just about the moment, Courfeyrac detailing a complete stranger's pants, when he found himself completely buried in vintage, vaguely musty-smelling clothing.

“Look out!” came the warning, much too late, as Courfeyrac squawked and flailed around in a sea of plaid and lace, finally getting his head free. He could almost feel his curls frizzing everywhere - there went twenty minutes and his hair product dollars.

A twenty-something was standing behind him, looking horrified. “Oh putain, I’m so sorry, that was stupid of me!” Courfeyrac pushed himself up with difficulty, looked at the disaster surrounding him, and sighed.

“It’s okay,” he said tightly, “I’ll just clean this up, don’t worry about it.”

“No, that’s not okay,” said the older guy, who Courfeyrac was startled to see was either bald or religiously shaved his head. One of his ears was double-pierced with earrings in the shape of a jet-black eagle and a tricolor Gallic rooster. “Seriously, I just ruined one of your displays, me and my friend can at least help you pick it all up. Right, Joly?”

“I’m telling you, don’t worry about it,” Courfeyrac started to say, but the older of the two guys had already picked up a shirt and handed it to Joly, who cringed for a moment before placing it on a table and folding it more neatly and efficiently then Courfeyrac could ever have. Well then.

A few minutes later, the three of them were merrily folding shirts of all colours for the display table and chatting as if they had known each other for years. Courfeyrac felt impossibly comfortable with them. In fact, he was considering introducing them to Enjolras and Combeferre.

“I want your shoes,” the bald guy was saying amiably, “you have really good taste. I’d ask to buy them from you but I don’t deserve them, I’d probably trip into a mud puddle or get shawarma all over them, seriously, ask Joly.”

“Bossuet’s the reason we can’t have nice things,” grumbled Joly, the bite in his voice completely undermined by the way he was rolling up Bossuet’s sleeves for him. Then, of course, Courfeyrac felt honour-bound to tell the whole woeful tale of the coffee/boots catastrophe.

“… And it was lucky I got them to emergency in time. They’re probably still in critical condition right now. Ugh, I feel so stupid and guilty for letting this happen.” Bossuet paused for a moment to clasp him on the shoulder, like he understood all the pain Courfeyrac would ever feel in his life and could make it better with that constant smile of his.

“In my professional opinion,” said Joly, also smiling, “with lots of bed rest and absolutely no fluids whatsoever, they should make a full recovery.”

“That’s my doctor-in-training,” Bossuet said, to which Joly seemed to feel the need to explain to Courfeyrac: “I was a pre-med student. I’m still waiting to get into medical school. I had to do an interview to get in and I often feel nervous around people I don’t know, so…”

“You’ve been doing great with me,” said Courfeyrac, and Joly beamed. “So are you two, um…”

“No, no, this guy’s my best friend,” laughed Bossuet, and Courfeyrac watched Joly’s face crumple for a fraction of a second, before the slim young man busied himself folding plaid. “We’ve known each other since 3e, he was a transfer from some snooty private school. He had a stutter and I was pulling out my hair at the time, so how could we not become friends?” Courfeyrac’s eyes wandered unbidden to Bossuet’s smooth scalp and felt his stomach clench. His gaze snapped back to the jeans he was holding, hoping Bossuet hadn’t noticed.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Bossuet, a bit too loudly. “It’s an old chapter of my life. You know? I don’t want people feeling sorry for me all the time. It’s boring and pointless and depressing as hell, actually.”

“Besides, bald is the new sexy,” teased Joly. Courfeyrac found his smile returning. 

“I don’t want to be condescending or patronizing or anything, but you’re both kind of incredibly brave, you know?” The words just came out, like that, and he realized how cheesy he sounded as soon as they left his mouth. Bossuet was grinning, though.

“Thank you,” said Bossuet, straight-faced, “we try.” 

“If we were in collège I would want to bring you two home to meet my mom - ”

“Whoa, hold on, this is getting way too serious way too fast, don’t you think?”

“ - But since we’re responsible adults now, I am so introducing you to my friends. Would that be okay? We’re all hanging out tonight after closing.”

“That would be nice,” said Bossuet, after exchanging a look with Joly, “we don’t know many other people –”

“– that aren’t from, you know, support group,” Joly quickly put in. “I guess I could use a night off from studying in any case. Just, fair warning, I don’t partake in shared appetizers or Twister.”

“There won’t be any of that. Just us at a friend’s apartment. Um…he’s trying to break into fashion now, actually working on designs and managed to book a show for next week, so of cours he’s now freaking out and I’m probably going to spend most of the night debating over the merits of different silk weights and how many pleats is too many pleats. But there’ll be alcohol,” he finished brightly.

“Then we’ll be there,” promised Bossuet. And then, “It’s probably none of my business, but does she work here or are you about to be robbed of your silk scarves?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I don't always love sticking translations of any words or phrases I use into my text or notes because, well, I myself like being exposed to other languages and trying to understand words in context. But anyways, in France, "3e" or "third year" of highschool corresponds to "9th grade" for us. After your 3e in collège (which is basically middle school) you progress to the lycée, high school, through 2de, 1ère, and finally their 12th grade/senior year, called "Tle" or "Terminale". It means "last", but in a very dignified, final-sounding way. I love it.
> 
> Stay tuned for Enjolras, Eponine, Grantaire, Musichetta, Feuilly, and more Cosette and Bahorel (not necessarily in that order). Dear Mr. Hugo, why must you saddle us with so many characters? Ah, who cares, I love it. Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god guys. I don't even have anything to say for myself. Life. Life is a thing. Well, summer's getting closer by the day - we still have snow on the ground, but that's another matter - and I'm hoping I'll have more and more time to keep working on this. Enjoy!

Combeferre was humming, actually humming, god, what was wrong with him? Maybe it was something about running a shop in which there was a constant soundtrack of teen girls – and boys, for that matter – squealing with excitement as they lifted vintage finds off racks. The excitement got to you – a buzz and bustle that coexisted with the Plastic Bertrand Jehan had put on (for completely non-ironic reasons, as usual). But he was feeling great. He should have known it was too good to last.

“Get back here!” Courfeyrac’s voice came crashing into his ears just as someone crashed into him, sent him stumbling to the side. He had just the time to see a blur of dark hair and jeans whip by with a mumbled “sorry” and sprint for the door. Unfortunately, the daring escape was not to be. Six feet four inches of Bahorel appeared in the doorway. He was grinning, only his eyes were even more enthusiastically involved than his mouth. The overall effect was only slightly less terrifying than your average escaped convict. Shoplifter she may be, but Combeferre winced all the same. 

“Putain de merde!” He would never have guessed a human voice could be described as a snarl. You learnt something new every day. 

Bahorel grinned wider. “Language. Why don’t you just put the nice scarves down and we’ll discuss this like adults?” The girl looked around frantically, saw Bahorel in front of her, twisted, saw Courfeyrac getting closer behind her, followed by a short guy with very shiny shoes, a bald guy, Jehan, and Cosette.

“I have a knife and I know how to use it. Get out of my way!”

“A knife and a collection of old cop movies to boot, huh? Come on, give up already, I don’t like to hurt little girls.”

“And I don’t like to hurt big brawny men, so don’t you dare touch me!”

“Those are mine,” said Cosette. “Um. The scarves.” Bahorel took a step forward and tried to grab the scarves from the girl, but she danced out of his way, fury and shame etched in every line of her face.

“You have a basketful of these just sitting on the windowsill and one of these buys a family dinner for the week. Fucking privileged hipsters.”

Bahorel scowled and Combeferre amused himself for a moment imagining thunderclouds gathering over his head. “Watch your language, I’m not a hipster –” 

“Opening a used clothes shop just to entertain people, when. When… You’ll never need to set foot in a goodwill store in your life. Oh, I know, it’s not very glamourous, but hey, when it’s between non designer brands and freezing, I’ll pick the peasant lifestyle. Have you even thought of, I don’t know, donating all of this to people who actually need it?”

Combeferre felt the inexplicable urge to look over at Courfeyrac, who was, sure enough, mouthing “Enjolras” at him.

Jehan drew himself up to his full height, which was five feet six inches, two inches of wayward curls and about another foot of sass.

“You’ve attempted shoplifting on our premises. We’re going to call the police.” The girl rolled her eyes.

“Okay, Duckie, whatever you say.”

Jehan frowned. “No. Duckie was a horrible little brat to Andie, you can’t call me Duckie. Also your jacket is factory with a vintage paintjob, boyfriend jeans don’t look good on anyone except supermodels and that black crap is detracting from your kind of nice eyes and makes you look like a sleep-deprived raccoon. Find a style that isn’t sacrilege to the gods of grunge and then you can insult me.”

“Find a style that doesn’t look like a flower garden had messy sex with a fairy princess all over an Indian carpet and then you can insult me.” Pretty much everyone gasped in unison.

“Burn,” said Cosette. Combeferre glared at her. “What?”

But, Jehan’s eyes shone, anger forgotten in dreamy, creative bliss, as Jehan was wont to do. “That is the most brilliant concept for avant-garde I’ve ever heard. Guys, guys, we can’t call the cops.”

“But – ” 

“She –”

“Shhh. I’m inspired. Let’s get her to do a window for us and call it even. Can we do that, um, I don’t know your name?”

The girl stared at him for a long moment, still clutching the silk scarves so hard her knuckles were turning white.

“Eponine. You’re not going to call the cops?”

“No no no, as long as you promise to be generous and share your genius with us and only us and oh, this is important, never ever wear black and brown together.”  
“We won’t be able to take our eyes off her for a second,” said Combeferre coolly. “Jehan, she tried to rob us not five minutes ago. You’re going to regret it.”

Eponine looked at him, and the loathing in her heavily made-up took the anger from his throat and sent it somewhere into his stomach to die. “I don’t wear hipster glasses and I don’t like kale, so I know I’m invisible to you no matter what I say. But goodwill kids, shockingly, do actually have honor. I’ll come by tomorrow. Lose the prejudice.” She walked out. Combeferre watched the silk scarves drift to the floor, like the autumn leaves falling from the trees outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I make you all wait months, and then I post a far-too-short chapter. Truly, I'm sorry. At least you got some Eponine out of the deal. Enjolras and Grantaire haven't quite gotten around to visiting Friperie Rouge yet, but don't worry, they'll storm or wander their way in soon, I promise.  
> Side note: if you haven't seen "Pretty In Pink", watch it. Now. Also, "Ça Plane Pour Moi" by Plastic Bertrand is exactly the kind of music I can picture Jehan putting on, probably just to annoy everyone around him. (Shhh...the singer is actually Belgian.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's closing time at Friperie Rouge and time for things previously ignored to start catching up with Courfeyrac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's summer! I can update this all the time now! Thank you to anyone who's stuck with me thus far.

The streetlights had been coming on earlier and earlier as the days had grown shorter, and today was no exception. By the muted light of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, Courfeyrac had helped Combeferre lower the heavy red drapes for the night. The last few customers drifted out, as if still under the spell of the shop. As his friend went to help Jehan at the cash, Courfeyrac did what he had been dreading and avoiding all day. He got out his phone.

[11:26] Thought we could discuss a university-wide initiative on dress code double standards at today’s meeting. Baby steps. -E

[11:27] Like do you realize Javert tried to send a girl home today because she was wearing an open-back shirt.

[11:27] Meanwhile there’s this guy walking around all day in a paint-splattered muscle shirt and no one bats an eye.

[11:29] Are you there? I’m almost at our table.

[11:31] Where are you?

[11:45] If you don’t get here in the next minute I’m calling you. Also we need to talk about how people are still justifying rape by the clothes the victim was wearing. Just lectured the morons who walked by me.

[Missed call from Enjolsomething, 11:46]

[11:50] PICK UP YOUR PHONE.

Courfeyrac winced and kept scrolling.

[Missed call from Enjolsomething, 11:52]

[Missed call from Enjolsomething, 11:56]

[12:03] I called Combeferre at his pit of consumerism and he doesn’t know anything. I know you’re blowing me off. In advance, “but he was really hot!!1!1!” is not an acceptable excuse. I’m angry.

[12:04] Unrelated but I got your Pinterest link and hell will freeze over before I take any of your fashion advice. Also, your attempts to objectify me are not appreciated.

(All Courfeyrac had done was send a picture of well-fitted – okay, tight – crimson skinny jeans with the friendly message “you’d look super mega foxy hot in these”.)

[12:30] Thanks for being so dependable. See you at Feuilly’s tonight.

Courfeyrac groaned and pressed his phone to his nose. Why did Enjolras have to be so intense? Courfeyrac’s presence probably wasn’t even required at the stupid meetings – Enjolras was fully capable of debating an issue with himself. But there was one more message.

[12:30] And yes, I am going to make a scene.

“Are you all right?” came a voice. Courfeyrac quickly arranged himself back into a pose suited to a normal person and not one to whom the one person notorious for his passionate lecturing on any social issue known to mankind was preparing to _make a scene_. Jehan stood there, smiling shyly and cradling a pair of boots.

His boots. They were like new. They had forgotten all about their adventure with his morning coffee, forgotten about a month of Paris rain and dusty apartments. Courfeyrac had been watching Jehan all day, seeing him flit around like a butterfly, spreading beauty, making customers laugh and try on things they would never have dared to otherwise that of course looked lovely on them. He saw him take one look at a woman and, without commenting on her red eyes, whisked her to the rack of most beautiful dresses, the ones with the sign over them reading “even the darkest night will end”. At the end of the hour Jehan spent pulling together a new wardrobe for her, she threw her arms around his neck and cried again, this time in joy.

“Ohmygod,” said Courfeyrac, reaching out instinctively to take them. The slight figure in front of him smiled again. “I’m so sorry I forgot to give them to you earlier. Thank you for all your help today, it was really nice meeting you.”

Courfeyrac made an friendly noise of uncertain meaning, finding he didn’t have the words. The return of his boots was having a stronger effect on him than he had thought. 

“I have to go finish cleaning up. But Combeferre said a friend of his was hosting a bit of a get-together tonight? I said I’d go. I want to make some more friends.”

“That would be great!” said Courfeyrac, and when Jehan smiled uncertainly, he realized how over-eager that sounded. “I mean, Feuilly will be really happy to have you there. More opinions, you know, always good.”

He was looking at Jehan in a new light. Or maybe it was just the dim light from the chandelier that illuminated the auburn curls, shadow turning his clear blue eyes darker, mysterious. 

_La lune trop blême pose un diadème sur tes cheveux roux_

Oh my god, repeated Courfeyrac, silently this time. What kind of witchcraft went on in this store? 

_La lune trop rousse de gloire éclabousse ton jupon plein d'trous_

And then, as if to confirm, as if through clockwork or possibly some celestial film writer’s script –

“That’s my favorite song,” murmured Jehan, closing his eyes as if in rapture. Courfeyrac froze, completely unsure of what to do, thinking that this was probably just the guy being eccentric but maybe it was…

_La lune trop pale caresse l'opale de tes –_

The music broke off. Not even a slow fade, just the abrupt silence of a paused playlist, cold, shattering whatever magic had been filling the air like fog around them. 

Jehan’s eyes opened, and he sighed. “Combeferre is way too particular about the music.” Before Courfeyrac could do anything like shout “stop I think I’m in love with you”, he was gone, into the depths of some back room, and Combeferre was there instead, grinning, flushed with the success of the grand opening.

“Ready to go?” he asked, and Courfeyrac was still staring over his shoulder at the head that seemed to be forever disappearing from his sight. Combeferre took one look at his expression and the smile seemed to slide off his face. “Oh no. Nooo.”

“What?” asked Courfeyrac, irritably, wondering what his friend could possibly have to complain about.

“That’s your ‘my crush is going to take over my life and those of my friends’’ face.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” protested Courfeyrac.

“Oh yes, it is. Next thing you know you’ll be competing with Marius Pontmercy…” This was a low shot. Marius Pontmercy was a mutual acquaintance who used his Facebook as a vehicle to post pining statuses about “the angel of the Luxembourg Gardens”. They both wanted to unfriend him, but didn’t, feeling it ethically dubious to abandon an innocent child.

“Let’s just go,” said Courfeyrac. “Get it over with.”

“Enjolras is waiting there for us, isn’t he?”

“Probably.”

“ _Putain_ ,” muttered Combeferre, pulling his hands though his hair. “Maybe it’ll be quick and painless?”

In the apartment above Friperie Rouge, Cosette was in front of her mirror, snuggled up in a lace-trimmed sweater and pajama pants, getting unreasonably angry with Pinterest and its “easy-to-follow!” hair tutorials and also with people telling her what to do and how to do it in general. Not five minutes ago, her father had come in, held up the bags containing new clothes from the shop downstairs and informed her quite calmly that his money was not going to be spent on clothes while she didn’t even try to find herself a job, young lady.

Joly and Bossuet were on the bus, on their way to the address Courfeyrac has given them. Joly looked at Bossuet and thought how adorable Bossuet looked in his bow tie, the vines-and-leaves one he had bought him. Bossuet looked at Joly and wanted to muss up Joly’s carefully styled hair so badly it hurt, but didn’t, because he knew how upset it made his (he begrudged the word its limits) friend. 

Eponine sat on her favorite bench at the park, scuffing her boots against the ground and thinking about Marius Pontmercy’s latest Facebook post. This one hadn’t mentioned blond hair or blue eyes and so she could almost pretend it was about her. Her thoughts drifted to Friperie Rouge. For the first time in five years, she was in public and wasn’t wearing eyeliner or ripped, overlarge jeans. She felt exposed. But it would be lying to say she wasn’t relieved. Like a coat of muddied paint was being peeled off her.

Enjolras was sitting on the arm of Feuilly’s worn sofa in a comfortable (shapeless) gray sweater and dark (boring) jeans and sensible (schoolboy) loafers, tap water in hand. His anger had subsided to a slow simmer. For some unfathomable reason, Courfeyrac’s Pinterest link kept resurfacing in his mind. Red jeans. He had been fascinated in some way, obviously because he was so horrified. People who obsessed over clothes were shallow. The things he had heard. “You’re so pretty, Enjolras. You should wear pretty clothes.” “Why don’t you show us some more skin, honey?” “Mm, your ass. Bet you’d look great in skinny jeans.” Objectifying him. You got handed good genes and people thought it gave them the right to tell you how you should look to please them. Submit to that? _Over my dead body._

Courfeyrac and Combeferre walked in the crisp night towards Feuilly’s flat, spat long forgotten, chatting about everything and nothing. Absently, Combeferre wondered whether he was ever going to make a profit on his investment. Courfeyrac wondered dreamily whether he was in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding that I'm really having trouble writing Eponine, wanting to shy away from anything remotely related to serious issues - I'm a pretty sheltered person. On the flip side, I'm finding this version of Enjolras really interesting to write. And wait, do we have some Courfeyrac/Jehan starting up already...? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for my next update, which will be up soon, I promise!
> 
> Lyrics from "Complainte de la butte" are not mine, all rights belong to their respective owners.


End file.
